


When touches alight

by Arzani



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, Geraskier Week, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Soulmates, Sweet and short, hurt!Jaskier, soulmate of choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22722688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arzani/pseuds/Arzani
Summary: Geralt doesn't believe in soulmates and he doesn't want one. Doesn't want to be one... but if he has to have one, he's glad it's Jaskier.For Geraskier week. Small one-shots that will losely connect. Based on the soulmate!Au where you can see on your skin where last your soulmate touched you, until the first sunray rises over the horizon.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 240





	1. soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what I'm actually doing, so bear with me.
> 
> Written for Geraskier week.  
> Day 1 – Soulmates  
> Day 2 – Monster hunt  
> Day 3 – Protection  
> Day 4 – Hurt/Comfort  
> Day 5 – Realisation  
> Day 6 – Found family  
> Day 7 – destiny  
> Day 8 – free day

“Stop singing,” Geralt grunted at him, more annoyed by the choice of words than the actual song. Jaskier and his romantic nonsense. Singing about light on skin, about soulmates and what a touch of two bonded lovers revealed, before sunlight hit. He had a wild imagination. It was utterly stupid, no matter the sweetness of Jaskier’s voice or the finesse in his tunes. To his relief the bard stopped.

“So you don’t believe in soulmates?” he was asked and why were those blue eyes so big? Bright like the sky on a summer day. Round and hopelessly lost in fantasies. Bards and witchers just didn’t get along. Their lifestyles didn’t. Couldn’t. Romance and fairytales weren’t found next to monsters in the dark.

“No,” he said, looking sharply at the bard down from Roach. He believed the discussion had ended with it, but after a minute or two of blessed silence, Jaskier started anew. With the first utterance of a question, Geralt rolled his eyes. Stupid, hopelessly romantic bard. But he was young, barely twenty. He would learn.

“But, why? Don’t you like the idea of the one that will love you unconditionally?”

All Jaskier got from him was a snort. Even Roach made a noise that almost sounded like one. “No. It’s stupid bullshit for children to sleep better at night.”

This definitely was the end of the conversation, Geralt was sure. Yet, when Jaskier sped up, head turned aside and something glinted in the corners of his eyes, he sighed. Oh, that damned bard, with such a fragile heart. Why did it feel wrong to see him like this?

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and softer again when he was ignored. “Jaskier, look at me.” Tears, salty and precious, that slipped down soft cheeks. Something in him dropped. He had to make this right. So he did. Dismounting Roach, he came to stand next to the bard. So young, so much to learn.

“Listen. There is nothing sweet or romantic about being forced into something. I don’t believe destiny, or soulmates or magic and curses, have a say in your feelings. If you cut your finger you’ll bleed and if you love someone you love someone. It’s all yours, as it is supposed to be. Your choice.”

He wondered if he had said too much, revealed too much of himself. But Jaskier didn’t ask, didn’t press - and his memories of princesses that had chosen once, and broke him in the process, stayed just that: Memories.

* * *

_Hands on his hips, lips on his face. A kiss, so sweet it melted his ice-cold heart. Legs that tangled with his. A moan, so raw and beautiful. The touch on his skin like butterflies. Soft, and warm. Fingers that drew circles in his back, before fingernails clawed into it. Panting, directly into his ear. Soft puffs of breath, the whisper of his name. A cry for more._

_“Please, please, don’t let go!”_

_“Never, never again.”_

_The arch in his back, the silent cry of need. He was helpless against it. Couldn’t and wouldn’t go against the pull that dragged him under. A tide inside him, like the moon and the water, reaching and wanting to touch endlessly. His hands, searching, searching and finding. This one spot, the height of emotion. A cry, a sob._

_“Please, now.”_

_How could he not, when there was so much raw need in those words? He directed, positioned and breached. A low moan. Eyelids that fluttered shut. Keening._

_“Jask?”_

_A kiss. And another. Lips on lips on lips on lips. Two heartbeats colliding. Warmth and then - a deliberate choice._

_“Go on.” And, after thrusts and heights and downfalls and clashing and coming together and finding each other in body and soul. “I love you!”_

_A deliberate choice. A smile that tugged at his mouth, at his heart. A body next to his, close, close still and closer. Hands that drew in, legs that tangled and eyes that shone. A kiss, eyelids that fluttered shut. Soft breath. And skin that shone in golden and blue. “I love you, too.”_


	2. monster hunt

Blood pooled down his forehead and onto his cheeks. It flowed and flowed, dripped from his chin and smeared the blue doublet red. Not that it made any difference, the fine piece of clothing ruined anyway. It was ripped, one sleeve torn apart, a scratch went from the right shoulder part to the bottom. Jaskier bled and he was shaken but he was alive and fear turned to fury inside Geralt. Fear turned to fury, because he never had learnt to turn it to concern, or love.

“I told you to stay behind,” he snarled into Jaskier’s face who didn’t even flinch, just stood there. Barely standing at all, on wobbly feet and the blood still ran down his face and it scared him. It scared Geralt, a fear he didn’t know he could feel. Ever.

“Why can’t you listen, when I tell you it’s dangerous?” His voice was dark, a growl coming from deep inside himself. His eyes were bright with fury, glaring daggers at the bard. A venomous glare, a stare that should turn men to whimpering messes. But Jaskier didn’t say anything, just stood there and it was disconcerting.

“This could have easily killed you. Do you actually have a death wish?” His voice was still strong, but something had shifted in it and while Geralt knew that, he couldn’t say what exactly it was. The aching in his chest had nothing to do with the numerous wounds he himself had. And there were many. He knew, because it had been a close call.

“By Melitele, Jaskier.” Was this his voice? Was this fragile thing him? Letting the anger subside to reveal the fear that had flooded him when Jaskier sprang forward. The damned bard, who had run to grip the silver sword Geralt had lost, when the bruxa had tackled him, clawing at his neck. The sword that was too close to the beast for Jaskier to get it but too far away for Geralt to actually grab and use it. He had reached for it, swung it - the fool - and as bruxas did when enraged, it had lashed for Jaskier. Geralt’s whole world had stopped for a moment, when he saw the bard - his bard - fall. When he saw the red of the blood. Heard the thump as his body hit the ground. Jaskier hadn’t even screamed, only his eyes had gone wide. Before the bruxa could attack again, it was dead.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered, as the realization hit, that Jaskier could be dead. That he could be dead, but he had been saved and it had hurt his saviour to do so. He hadn’t known what it meant to be saved, always doing the saving instead. And suddenly there were arms around him. Arms were around his neck, that held tight, blood smeared onto his shoulder, mixed with tears as they fell. Sobs, so heart-wrecking it pained him, rung in his ears.

“You-” Another sob. The voice cracking with the shivers that wracked Jaskier’s body. “You nearly died. You … you.” Tears. Fingers clawed into his skin, through layers of torn fabric and shredded armor. “Couldn’t let you.”

His heart fluttered in his chest and slowly Geralt placed his arms around Jaskier’s waist, held him steady and close. Reassured him that he was, in fact, not dead. None of them were. They were alive. Thanks to this brave, foolish bard. It felt comforting, the embrace. It felt new and warm and strange.

“Couldn’t let you” Jaskier had sobbed into his chest and Geralt thought he understood.

* * *

_ Months of pain and separation and loneliness. Months of missing what he had taken for granted all along. Months of searching, of making up words just to discard them silently. Months. Too many months. _

_ Nothing had went as planned on that damned mountain. But the worst had been his own stupid thought that he could send Jaskier away and believe he would still be there. Stupid, idiot witcher. Discarding the only being that had always chosen him, in all he was, before anyone else. With blood on his hands and scars on his soul. _

_ Months of pain and longing and understanding crashing down on him. Months of following tunes and songs and rumors. Months of chasing a ghost. The ghost of his heart. _

_ Months…  _ “So you don’t believe in soulmates?”  _ He wished time would fly faster. _

_ A lifeless body in front of him, the only sign he was alive the rising and falling of his chest. Blood on his hands, on his sword. The memory of a bruxa - blurred with the faces of the men that had attacked him. Jaskier. Standing up for him, still, even after all that had happened all those months ago. Still would spit and claw and run to save him from the monsters of this world. Even if it meant endangering himself. _

_ Five men dead. He had found them in the last minute possible. Had killed, before they could kill. Yet, when he looked at the pale face, lids closed, mouth slightly open to draw breath, he wasn’t so sure if it had been in time. Months… and he hadn’t even been able to say sorry. _

_ “I couldn’t let you die, you stupid fool. Can’t let you die. Please, don’t die on me.” _

_ The sun sunk down the horizon and when he touched his bard’s cheek, let a single tear fall, the skin shone in a faint fading blue. _


	3. protection

“What is wrong?”

He had to ask. The bard had been uncharacteristically quiet and while Geralt had tried to explain it with their Djinn accident, after three days of silence he couldn’t anymore. Jaskier had his voice back, but he didn’t use it to sing nor talk. Dark clouds, an aura of imperviousness, surrounded him. It worried Geralt. Jaskier was supposed to be an open book… only he wasn’t.

“Nothing,” was the answer Geralt got and it made him grit his teeth. The stick he held in his hand landed in the grass and he stood, forcefully, from the log he was sitting on. Forgotten was the rabbit he needed to skin, forgotten the dinner he wanted to prepare. This was important. Jaskier didn’t lie to his face without reason.

“Jaskier!” The tone was sharp, sharper than usual, he knew. Blue eyes looked at him, but they were tired. The anger he held fell, made way for something else. A clench in his guts. This wasn’t right. “If this is still too much for you, tell me.”

Whatever  _ this _ was. The journey, the traveling maybe. He had been assured the bard was fully healed, she had assured him Jaskier would be alright. Was alright… only, he didn’t seem alright. She wouldn’t lie to him, surely? A snort gurgled up his throat, died on the way before it was freed. She would and she had.

The blue eyes looked away. “I’m fine.” Again, the lie.

“Jaskier, please,” he whispered and knew it sounded vulnerable. Like something inside him was close to a breaking point should he not know what was wrong. Maybe it was. After all this… strange encounters he needed the assurance that at least nothing between Jaskier and him had changed. That they were still  _ them _ . A witcher and his bard.

Body still turned away, eyes hidden by brown hair and faced towards the ground, a timid voice reached his ears. “Why did you sleep with her?”

His heart clenched. Pain, like thousand needles, that penetrated something inside him, somewhere between his stomach and his throat.

“I…” Yes, well why had he? Because of the last wish? Because of the thing between them, that had been there before that last wish, even? Because he had promised whatever payment she wanted, to save him? “You knew?”

And now he was looked at, a gaze full of misery and anger and fury. Open, like he hadn’t been since the djinn accident, but hurt and pained. It was a look he didn’t want to see on Jaskier’s face. Not at all. Never. Jaskier was sunshine and flowers and happiness. He had to be.

“I saw you. Fuck, Geralt. She used you for revenge, enchanted you against your will and landed you in jail. She would have you hanged just for her own benefit and you slept with her! Protected her first, not to forget. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

A truth after another. Every word seething and full with honest opinion and sharp like a knife. He was, after all, a person who made a living by wielding words. Jaskier, the bard, who could cradle and kill with his voice only. Geralt had nothing to say in his defense. His body was numb, as he stared into the blue eyes that gathered tears, which threatened to spill, but didn’t. With all in the open, things said and done, Jaskier looked away again. Fists clenched.

His body moved on its own accord. He walked around the fire, that blazed and burned, to sit next to Jaskier. The want in him to take his face in hand, to make him look, was strong, but Geralt refused. He knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. They were so close, but miles away. His fingers itched, but lay lifeless on his thighs.

“She saved your life. I couldn’t let her die.”

He had said it before, but it seemed not a good enough reason, because Jaskier snorted. It sounded like a sob. He still looked away… until he wasn’t anymore. His cheeks were wet.

“I can’t protect you from her. Maybe it would have been better…”

The sentence was never finished, trailed off because things couldn’t be changed. The only thing that remained was a crack in his heart, and the wish to roar a loud and final “No”. Because Geralt had meant it when he had told Yennefer of Vengerberg that he would pay any price to safe Jaskier. He would, he would, he would. Only he wasn’t sure anymore if the price hadn’t been too high.

* * *

_ “Geralt?” _

_ His eyes fluttered open. Was this real? Was it really? But there it was again and his heart jumped, excited, afraid, relieved… all at once. _

_ “Geralt?” _

_ “Jaskier,” he sighed and lifted his head from the mattress where he had fallen asleep on. Uncomfortable, sitting in a stool, head lolled to the side, neck stiff from the position. It meant nothing compared to have Jaskier awake. _

_ “You’re here?” The question sounded so diminished, like ghosts or echoes of actual words. Raw voice, husky and low. Afraid, irritated… wondrous. _

_ “I’m here” He gulped, looking at the man that lay in front of him. Bandages covered his body, blue bruises littered his face. A pale face, with red quivering lips and blue, blue eyes. Without thinking, he reached for Jaskier’s hand, entangled their fingers, stroke with his thumb over his palm. “I’m here and I’ll never go away, if you let me.” _

_ “But you don’t… want me.” _

_ His heart cracked and bled. Guilt crashed into him like a wave. His breath caught in his throat. Stuck, stopped all words. His hand squeezed the other a little harder. It wasn’t pulled away. _

_ Eyes darted over his face, took it in. Blue just became a little bluer, the iris expanding. “You protected me.” _

_ And Geralt laughed, a very pained sound, bubbling out. His golden eyes whispering all he couldn’t say. “I did a fucking poor job on it,” he managed to get out. “I’m s-” he wanted to add, but was stopped by a pull on his hand. He fell forward, followed the soft force until he understood. Discarded his booths, his belt and took the space that he had been given. Curled next to the body that was so warm and soft and… injured. _

_ “I’m too tired to be mad at you,” was whispered into his hair. “I am mad. I will shout at you… tomorrow.” _

_ “Do. You can shout at me all you want,” Geralt murmured, heart finally settling. Soft breaths told him, it wasn’t heard. It didn’t matter. He would repeat himself, tomorrow. And the day after. Again and again. Until he made sure he would never forget that Jaskier was his to protect. Whatever the price. _


	4. hurt/comfort

“Toss a coin to your witcher, a friend of huma-”

“Shut the fuck up, bard!” could be heard. The lute made a discorded sound and Jaskier had to dodge the bread and fruits flying at him. The whole town had been hostile, the moment they had stepped in, but he and Jaskier were in dreaded need to stock up on supplies. Food, herbs, new boots for himself… Jaskier had demanded they’d go, even if Geralt knew the townsfolk didn’t like witchers. He had been here before.

He sighed and looked wearily at the man who still smiled brightly and tried to find his rhythm again. The last time people had actually thrown food at Jaskier was… ages ago. Usually even the coldest person warmed under the charm of the bard. Not this time.

“Well well, maybe ano-” Jaskier tried, but didn’t manage to finish his sentence, when something else flew. Belatedly Geralt realized is was a stone. He was up in a moment, but it was too late. The stone hit and blood seeped down Jaskier’s face.

“Who was that?” Geralt growled, stepping towards the bard and basically shielding him with his own body. Anger boiled inside him, ready to spill over. These people didn’t hate Jaskier, they hated him, and while Geralt could deal with it, he would not allow Jaskier to get hurt for their narrow minded worldview.

Nobody answered him, not that Geralt had expected that, but he looked around the patrons nonetheless. Hostile eyes regarded at him, calling them names and worse. Ready to kill, his hand was already on a dagger, he always kept with himself. Yet, Jaskier turned and placed a hand on his chest.

“Don’t,” was whispered, a small smile on Jaskier’s face that looked so much worse with the blood that seeped from his temple. “I’m fine.”

A growl came loose, deep and raw and angry. Yet, the hands on him, warm through the shirt Geralt was wearing, stopped him from lashing out. Until…

“Yeah, bard, hold back your witcher. Keep the beast on a leash. Fucking animal.”

In a flash, Jaskier turned back to the men sitting at the counter, his hand balled to a fist, fire burning in his eyes. When he pressed his lute into Geralt’s stomach all the witcher could do was reflexively grab it. It was an effective way to stop him from stopping Jaskier, because he knew what would come to him, should the beloved lute get damaged.

“Don’t, Jaskier!” he called, but wasn’t heard. His hand stretched out, he brushed the soft silk of the doublet, but the man was already out of reach. Shit.

With wide eyes, Geralt watched how Jaskier swung his arm back and then forth, throwing a punch directly on the man’s nose. Something cracked and for a swift moment Geralt was almost proud. He hadn’t known that Jaskier could give such a hook to the chin.

Then hell broke loose, and he needed all his concentration and strength to make it to Jaskier and get him out of the tavern. Shielding the damned lute didn’t make it easier. Thankfully they hadn’t paid for a room in advance. Instead they found themselves outside the city, in a clearing, where Geralt softly dapped at the broken skin on Jaskier’s face. He had a bleeding lip, the wound from the stone, a black eye and scratched hands and arms. His doublet was torn and blood-smeared. Not all of it was his.

“You know,” Geralt said after a while of companionable silence, “you could have slept in a bed tonight, if you had just let them be.”

Yet, all he got was a huff and a growl, that in a way reminded him of his own. Did he always sounded like this? “And let them insult you? Never!”

Shaking his head, Geralt continued cleaning the cuts, but a soft smile spread on his lips and well, if he was extra gentle, Jaskier probably didn’t know that.

* * *

_ Sun filtered through the window and tickled his nose. He woke, a warm body next to his and for a moment all Geralt could think was that this was a dream. Then the body next to him shifted and he remembered what had happened. Jaskier had woken up. The realization erased the last bits of sleep. _

_ He wanted to sit up, not sure if this… closeness was wanted. Sure, Jaskier had tugged him into bed, but he had been tired and probably not thinking straight. A hand on his chest, however, hindered him from pulling away. With a sigh he turned his face and looked at the soft figure next to him. _

_ Closed eyes, brown hair that fell into a familiar face. Bruises and cuts, but the hint of a smile. His heart did a funny thing inside his chest. Tumbling and beating, skipping a beat just to race to make up for it. His fingers brushed a strand of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. _

_ “I’m sorry,” he whispered, loud enough to be heard, were the other awake. But he wasn’t. “I’m sorry I took you for granted, when I shouldn't have. I’m sorry I got so used to your presence, I didn’t know how special it was. I’m sorry I couldn’t see how much you gave, while I didn’t return the favor. I only took from you, I took and took until you were nearly gone. Until you were gone. I only realized how much I needed you when you were away.” _

_ He took a shuddering breath while tears started to gather in the corner of his eyes. He had been such an idiot. His fingers brushed at Jaskier’s forehead still, stroking his skin, seeking the warmth. _

_ “I’m sorry… I should have never said those words. I was angry with myself and took it out on you, like a stupid fool. I… never want to hurt you again. I never want to lose you again. Never want to miss your warm smile, or your presence or your silly songs, that are so wonderfully sung and full of life. You made me a better man. Someone who wants to feel... preferably you at my side.” _

_ Eyelids fluttered open and a hand reached for his, that hadn’t stopped stroking Jaskier’s face. The smile that met him was brilliant, warm and soft. _

_ “It’s really hard to be mad at you, when you say such things,” was murmured. Jaskier’s voice was full of sleep, but familiar and ernest. He laced his fingers with Geralt’s. “You’re forgiven.” The protest was already on his lips, but Jaskier stopped him. “But!” He halted to take some breath, his eyes darkened and Geralt’s heart clenched in his chest. Never again. This expression was something that didn’t belong on Jaskier’s face. Ever. “If you ever push your unrelated anger towards me, again, I will turn around, walk away and never come back.” _

_ It was enough. Enough of a threat, enough to understand what it meant. No words, no protection, no nothing would help Geralt then… and he understood. _

_ “Okay!” _

_ Because if he ever hurt Jaskier like this again, Geralt would not forgive himself anyway. He couldn’t rip Jaskier’s soul apart without ripping his own. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as good as the other chapter's, I'm afraid, but whatever...


	5. realisation

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

The words echoed in his head, his own voice sharp and angry. Even now, hours later and the sun already set, the memory of it reverberated through his thick skull. The hurt in Jaskier’s eyes didn’t want to go. The memory of it didn’t want to go. Geralt knew he had hurt the bard… he knew it was wrong what he had done but he… he stupidly thought he could make up like he always did. He thought…

He thought he could spit at the only man who always stood by his side without wavering and get away with it. It really had been his firm belief that he could walk down the mountain and meet Jaskier, waiting patiently with Roach for him. How foolish.

In their many years together Geralt had gotten away with a lot. Neglecting Jaskier’s feeling, jabbing at him and insulting what he so dearly cherished.  _ A pie with no filling _ … and he had thought it to be okay… until Jaskier had been in danger and on the verge to lose his voice forever and - really Geralt should have realized it back then. But he hadn’t.

Looking at his hands, in the darkness, he cursed under his breath. The hands balled to fists but there was nothing to let his anger out on other than himself. He pressed his fingernails into his skin, pressed harder until the skin cracked and he drew blood. Not enough, not enough to fight the growing realisation. Not enough to make the pained look go away.

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

He shouldn’t have said those words. His anger hadn’t been for Jaskier, but for himself and the world that threw things at him he couldn't handle. Emotions, attachments - destiny. The only thing destiny had never seen to was to tie him to Jaskier. No, the only one who had tied him to the bard was the bard himself. It had been Jaskier who had stepped into his life, stayed there and who had stepped out of it. With and without his help. No, Geralt knew he couldn’t blame destiny on it, only his own stupid witcher self.

The night was dark, the moon but a line and he hadn’t found it in him to light a fire. Roach was somewhere close, he could hear her breathe. A comforting noise, her smell familiar - the only familiar left in his life. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed. Weary.

_ Lets go to the coast… _

He should have… he should have listened. Not just on that mountain but before. Should have listened when Jaskier told him about destiny and how it haunted him. About Yennefer surely. About taking a break, about emotions that witchers felt despite the common understanding. He should have listened… to his own heart that slowly crumbled, now that anger made way for weariness and pain.

It was silent around him. The quiet of the night too loud in his ears. He wasn’t used to it anymore. Wasn’t used to so many things he only now realised.

That silence could be deafening. That company was something he needed. That sometimes destiny didn’t fix things. That he ached even though he shouldn’t know how to… that Jaskier was gone.

He had sent the only person in the world away that had unconditionally loved and cared for him. The realisation crashed onto him like a wave and it hurt. Oh, it how it hurt. Like nothing ever had before.

* * *

_ “Please, Jask, you should stay in bed,” Geralt pleaded. His voice was trembling, showing his emotion so plainly like he hadn’t dared to before and not one inch of him cared. Because all his being was occupied with worrying about Jaskier - his stupid, stubborn, idiotic bard. “You’re still injured and probably have a concussion.” _

_ A day had passed and Geralt had asked the owner of the inn of how long he could keep the room. Yet, he soon realized it wasn’t about how long he could stay but about how long he could pay. Not long enough, obviously - him not being able to make money while caring for Jaskier and Jaskier unable to play. He hated how dire the situation was. _

_ “Don’t be daft, Geralt. I can make my way down, play for a while and at least earn us our meal,” Jaskier said as he had said again, before. Too fast for Geralt’s liking Jaskier had picked up on the problem. All he should focus on was healing but no. This man was an enigma, bright and bold and causing Geralt a headache. _

_ “For the love of Me-” Geralt wanted to growl, when he saw how Jaskier swung his leg over the edge of the bed and stood with a push… made a step, trembled … and had his knees give way. “Shit,” came out instead and with a start he steadied Jaskier. His arms snuck under the other’s armpits, pressed him close, cradled him to make sure he couldn’t fall. _

_ “Don’t do that.” He lowered Jaskier back onto the bed, let him sit and tried not to scream in frustration. “Please.” He didn’t know his own expression, but there must be something vulnerable in them, he knew. _

_ Blue irises looked at him, shocked and then a soft sob made it to his ears. Tears welled in the edges of familiar eyes and it broke his heart. To see Jaskier so helpless and frustrated. _

_ “I’m useless,” was whispered into thin air and this time Geralt really growled. His face hard lines and mouth a thin line. Anger… not towards Jaskier, but the world. Himself. _

_ “No!” _

_ “But, Ger-” _

_ But he interrupted Jaskier, the realisation dawning on him that it was still firmly implanted in his bard’s mind to be a burden to him. Even though Jaskier was far from being one. He was a lot. A bard, a nuisance at times, a great singer and poet, a troublemaker, a brightly colored dot in this world of grey, a friend… a person Geralt cared for, needed in his life. Loved…  _ fuck! _ How had it taken him so long to come to that realisation? _

_ But it didn’t matter, not in the face of this. _

_ “No,” he said again and then, softer, “No, don’t you ever believe even the tiniest bit I ever meant that. You are not useless. You were hurt by trying to protect my name and now you want to stress your own injured body again, because I can’t provide. You are so much, Jaskier. But never useless.” His hand snuck up to Jaskier’s cheek, touching him softly. _

_ Love. It had taken him just over two decades to understand that what he was feeling was love. He was such an idiot, really. _

_ “Let me care for you. I will find a way, until you are better again. You need to heal.” _

_ It wasn’t the time and place to speak it out loud, but it was enough to finally come to see it for what it was. His feelings. The pain, the longing, the fear to lose. Love... _

Witchers don’t have feelings _ was a lie and to realise it wasn’t easy. But he had Jaskier to help him through. _


	6. found family

When Geralt realized Nilfgaard was attacking, he knew he had to make a decision. Cintra was miles away. And maybe it would hold. Maybe the Lioness would be able to defend the cub. But deep inside him, he knew better. Deep inside he knew that Cintra would fall and it was his duty to protect what destiny had thrown his way.

The lion cub of Cintra.

Destiny was pulling at him, it pulled and pulled until he went. He had lost everyone close to him, he couldn’t lose the child. At least he knew they were safe, but the child? Not if Nilfgaard attacked. They were safe. Yen at least would be, she was a powerful sorceress. He refused to think about  _ him _ , focusing on his child surprise instead.

Just a bard. A mere human. Humans that fell easily in times of war. Especially when their only protection was a fucking lute.

No, he rather think of the lion cub of Cintra. Which he soon found out to be Cirilla, a girl. He had no idea why he had always thought his child surprise to be a boy. But he had been wrong about a lot of things.

So he went towards Cintra, then away from it, letting destiny lead him until he met her. The girl in the woods. Blond hair, shining eyes, dirtied coat and so so trusting. Trusting that he could protect her. He had no idea how to do it. Didn’t know how to handle that he suddenly had a child. A traumatised one at that. A girl that had seen loss and war and death. A girl with power inside her that needed training, to protect herself and everyone around her.

As much as he dreaded it, Geralt knew he needed to find Yennefer. She would hate it - love it because she had always wanted to have a child - that it was him bringing Ciri to her. But the girl needed a sorceress to teach her wield the magic that lived inside her blood. He could only teach her how to wield a sword and that was not enough.

It was deep in the night and he look up at the stars while he listened to Ciri’s breath as she slept - for once - peacefully. Then it turned strained, harsh and faster. He shot up, but didn’t know what to do. How to calm her, when he knew that a nightmare haunted her? He didn’t know what to do, his eyes squeezing shut in frustration as he hoped it would vanish without him doing anything. But it didn’t and Ciri screamed. Only then he made his way to her to shake her awake. When she startled out of the dream and looked at him with wide eyes he knew neither him nor Yennefer would ever be enough. Ciri needed - next to all the training - a person to show her kindness and love.

His eyes closed and he suppressed the tears that welled up when he thought of the only person capable of showing her how to be - alive. She pressed into his chest and sobbed openly, but all words died on his tongue. He was unable to reassure her that everything would be alive, because he didn’t know if it was true and how to say it.

Jaskier would know how to sooth her. He always knew the right words. The man radiated brightness and sunshine and life. But he wasn’t here and Geralt didn’t know if he could ever mend this broken family.

* * *

_ “I have to tell you something,” Geralt whispered after a stretch of silence. He still didn’t know how to provide, but he was adamant to try. To get some coin somehow, so they could stay in this room until Jaskier was healed enough to travel. He would start with being honest. He hadn’t been honest for too long. Not to others. Not to himself. _

_ “What is it?” Jaskier asked from his bed. At least he hadn’t tried to get back up. _

_ “I…” Geralt gulped and then pressed all nagging thoughts aside. “I found her.” And when he realized Jaskier didn’t understand, because as always the bard needed more details, he elaborated. “My child surprise. The lion cub of Cintra. Cirilla.” _

_ Jaskier’s eyes became wide, then soft. Something inside him dropped, as if a stone had fallen from Geralt’s heart. The weight on his shoulders was lighter now, became lighter still when he realized Jaskier was looking around as if Geralt had hidden the child somewhere. He smiled. _

_ “She’s not here. She’s …” and he took a deep breath because he knew Jaskier wouldn’t like that. “with Yennefer.” _

_ As expected Jaskier’s happy expression crumbled and he looked away. “I see,” he said, gripping the sheet. No. No - the pang inside Geralt was something he wouldn’t allow. This was something he wouldn’t allow. Not anymore. _

_ “Jaskier,” he spoke, voice firm and almost an order to be looked at. “You don’t see.” _

_ Wary eyes looked at him, the head turned, lips quivering. Leaning over, Geralt placed his hand on the fist that gripped the sheets, trying to convey through touch what he probably never be able to tell through words. His other hand reached for Jaskier’s head, cradled his chin, thumb brushing over soft lips. The man shuddered under him. _

_ “She has her mother’s powers,” and his eyes said ‘I’m sure you remember that night’. Of course Jaskier did, his pupils turning wide, black. “She needs some training I can’t provide. But Yennefer and I -” He stopped, needing to place his words carefully or else all the emotions would spill. All the bottled up love, the fear, the hope - everything. But when he saw hope, well, maybe everything was what he needed to give. _

_ “We are not like this anymore. We’re family, maybe - bound, still. But not intimate. But you…” _

_ His voice wavered and he gulped the lump in his throat down. Words failed him. _

_ But Jaskier placed his own hand on the one that rested still on his cheek. Entangled their fingers together, the hand no longer a fist. “What am I?” His voice not more than a whisper. But witcher senses were fully capable to make out the words. _

_ “You are my heart, my soul and my conscience. You are the family I want to chose. You’re the one I want to pick.” He shook slightly, heart beating too fast for a witcher. “You’re the one I want, if you let me.” _

_ He breathed in. Jaskier breathed out. Shuddering breaths. Beating hearts. Entangled fingers. Then a smile. A tear that died on Geralt’s palm and soft lips that brushed his. _

_ “I let you. You found me, after all.” _


	7. destiny

“Geralt,” Ciri said with a quiet voice.

They had reached a crossroads, one way would lead them towards the Blue Mountains to Kaer Morhen, where Geralt knew he needed to take Ciri to keep her safe. The other would take them away from it.

“What is it?” he asked her, holding Roach’s reins in his hand. Ciri sat atop his loyal mare, looking towards the one way they shouldn’t take. Something inside him tugged at his heart. He sighed.

“We have to go this way.”

Why had he known something like this would leave Ciri’s mouth? The pull inside him became stronger. With assessing eyes he watched the sky, sought out the formation of the clouds, felt the winds and decided that they had enough time for a little detour.

“We shouldn’t,” he murmured, but there was no bite in his voice. Ciri hummed, and he dreaded that she had picked up his mannerisms this fast. There was no good in not using words.

“We need to,” was her simple reply. It felt like when his heart had tugged him into the woods, to find Ciri running towards him. So he led Roach into the direction of the unknown.

Half a day later he could smell lilacs and gooseberries.

***

_ “I’ll see if someone has some work for me,” he murmured into Jaskier’s skin. The man could barely hold his eyes open, still too wounded and hurt to stay awake for long. The revelations of the day had taken their toll, too. “Sleep. I’ll lock the door, so no one can disturb you. I’ll be back before you know it.” _

_ “Mmh…,” Jaskier murmured unintelligently into his hair. He sounded tired. But a hand reached for his back and pressed him closer still. “Stay safe, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” _

_ That made him snort, amused. “Like attacking bandits that insulted my bard?” he mused and saw Jaskier’s mouth twitch. _

_ “Mhm,” he hummed, confirming and then let Geralt go. He straightened his back rather unwillingly, but he needed to make some coin, so they could keep the room, so Jaskier could heal, so they could get back to Kaer Morhen - where Ciri was. _

_ Shaking his head, he closed the door behind himself, thinking about the day Ciri had insisted he needed to get going, find ‘his soul’. She hadn’t eloberated, just pointed towards a place - this place - with the insistence he would find who he sought. His child still managed to surprise him. He wondered if this was destiny? _

_ “My bard,” he heard Jaskier murmur, his fine senses picking up the voice even through the door. “I think I like that…” _

_ No, Jaskier had never been destiny. He had been a deliberate choice, his own decision to start to care, to discard and rage against and find again to apologize… to love. Jaskier was his to love by his own free will. He loved Ciri with all his heart, she was more than destiny, and Yen was family now, despite the wish. But Jaskier, Jaskier was his. His choice, his own will. His bard to love. _

_ When he reached the exit of the tavern - he had the inn in mind. Innkeeper always knew the gossip of the town, and hopefully could direct him towards someone who needed help and had some coin to spare - his medaillon vibrated. Looking outside, he saw a portal swirl into existence and a beautiful, very familiar figure appeared. _

_ “Yen,” he murmured, blinking. The door behind him fell shut. _

_ “Ciri said you need help,” she answered and opted to forgo the greeting. Taking a deep breath, smelling lilacs and gooseberries, he let the tension drown out of his body. _

_ “Yes.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, I decided to finish this. Because I have too many unfinished stories and I can't have that. It's short, sorry. But it's there.


End file.
